The Man in the Mirror
by MaidenStar
Summary: Just a late post-S3E8 bandwagon jumper, so spoilers ahoy. It's been a long time since he's last seen Alex and things just don't feel as real as they used to. Maybe it's time for a drink but it's a one-way decision and he's a just a bit afraid of change.


**A/N: Hello =) I'm new to the Ashes to Ashes section on this site, but definitely not new to the show, been a proud fan from day one =D Anyway I started writing a Gene-gets-sent-to-Alex's-world type fic ageees ago, then moved on to a Gene POV oneshot, then a post-series 3 finale bandwagon-jumper. Then, because my muse is a little scumbag at times, this came to me. I'm hoping to write and post my other creations soon but decided to post this in the meantime. Hope you like it, just another post S3 E8 oneshot but I hope with my own little twist.**

**Disclaimer: Once again we've come to the time when I must admit that I own no recognisable characters, settings, plot-lines or lyrics. I'm just a poor student and don't make a penny from writing this. **

-/-/-

The Man in the Mirror

The harsh air was rough on his stubbly cheeks as he meandered aimlessly down the road, hands sheltering themselves in his pockets. All around people were laughing and cheering, making their way to somewhere or other around him, many hand-in-hand with their girlfriends or boyfriends, some women in deathly high heels had looped their arms through their friends' to avoid being separated in the crowds and still others had young children balanced on their shoulders, their little heads drooping as a result of the excitement of the day and the late hour. All rejoiced and most tottered precariously as a result of the huge amount of alcohol being consumed on this special night. But Gene Hunt walked alone. He was constantly jostled as hundreds of people passed on either side of him but no one man could have ever been more isolated or alone. Many noticed his depressed countenance as he passed by, thinking that no-one should be alone on a night like this; it was worse than being alone on Christmas Day.

It was 1989, it had been since Gene had arrived back in his broken office without his friends and without her; _Alex Drake. _He didn't really know why he hadn't gone with her. There was someone else to take his place here – there was always someone waiting in the wings and there always would be because that was just the way these things worked. But Gene Hunt was stubborn and more than anything else terrified of change. And a lot had changed in 1989; the fall of the Berlin Wall, George Bush was now the new president of America, the Soviets had buggered out of Afghanistan and Margaret Thatcher had introduced her biggest evil yet, in Gene's eyes – the Poll Tax. Not only that, when it came to change, it didn't get much bigger than this one night of every year. The 31st of December, 1989. Not just the end of a long, harrowing year, but of a long, harrowing decade. It heralded the start of the 1990s, a totally new era full of totally new people and Gene wasn't sure if he would find his place in this new world – he didn't know if he could adapt and survive.

And Gene had no-one to see in the new decade with. He could go and seek out his new team, complete with that arse who had walked in jabbering about some iPhone , whose name was Adam Jeffery and who, for all his nancying around, was generally an alright bloke. But he wasn't all that fond of his new team – it just wasn't the same without Ray being a serial womaniser, Chris being a serial prat and Shaz and Alex bringing their 'feminine touch' to proceedings as they liked to think they did. And now that they weren't there and Luigi's was some poncy French bistro and wine bar Gene didn't seem to take his six o'clock lunch like he used to. Rather, he just went home. But even he couldn't face going home and sitting alone on his sofa on a night like tonight. So here he was out in the cold waiting to watch some ridiculous fireworks and stand next to some stranger and sing some song he bloody hated with a passion.

If Alex were here she would have linked arms with him and he would have fidgeted for a while to try and pretend he didn't like it, so she wouldn't know how he revelled in the feel of their bodies slotted together perfectly. But it definitely wasn't like the cliché that it was 'as if they were made for each other'. There was no 'if' about it – Gene was positive that they _had_ been made for each other. And once the familiar routine had been adhered to she would rest her head on his shoulder and when they spoke they would only need to whisper, such was their proximity. She'd tell him not to be such a miserable bastard and enjoy himself and he'd shoot right back, saying that he'd had more fun at a funeral – although if she were still here now, that probably wouldn't be an acceptable thing to say; he'd have had to find something else to joke about, because he wouldn't want to see her cry.

Snapping him back to the present and out of his thoughts was the music playing: earlier that day someone had set up some speakers in the square he was standing in and they had been playing hits from the decade all day. The music could be heard from quite a distance away, so Gene knew that they'd exhausted most of the early 80s already. Now though, a smooth, soulful voice crooned out across the square.

_Gotta make a change,  
For once in my life.  
It's gonna feel real good,  
Gonna make a difference.  
Gonna make it right._

Partly because that day had never really left his heart and partly because he had nothing to else think about on a night like this, memories of the night he'd safely delivered his team to the Railway Arms gently filtered back to him as he stood watching the world pass by. Perhaps even worse than saying one final goodbye and having to put up with Jim bloody Keats' gloating was knowing that he was going to have start from scratch again and that he was alone this time, no chance of slipping into comfortable forgetfulness again. Not while he had Alex's memory to nurture and preserve. Having her with him had made him feel stronger and knowing she was always there by his side had given him the confidence that all his surface bravado had been trying to compensate for. Because turning around and asking Nelson for a pint had never come into the equation. And why, he just didn't know.

It wasn't as though the images came pouring back to him, like people always said. It was more of a trickle than a flood. The overbearing weight of his heart at the time had never really left him and the sheer emotion clawed at his throat, worse than any cold night in December could. Bugger, he didn't want to stand here anymore – he'd go and find a quiet spot to see in the New Year alone.

_As I turn up the collar on,  
__My favourite winter coat,  
This wind is blowin' my mind.  
I see the kids in the street,  
With not enough to eat,  
Who am I to be blind?  
Pretending not to see their needs._

It was not before giving good ol' Jimbo a sneaky punch in the face and kick in the groin area that he had begun the journey back to the office from the Railway Arms on foot - because it wasn't as though today had been bad enough. Hell no, on top of losing everything else, he had to contend with the fact that some bastard had gone and murdered his beloved car, his Quattro. He'd had to sort out a confused and somewhat frightened D.I. Adam Jeffery with an _'I'm your Guv now, not someone else. So you're going to do what I say. And I say, bugger off, get a good night's sleep and be here first thing in the morning, alright?'_ speech before he could even start the laborious task of literally picking up the pieces of what had been his entire life just a few short hours before.

Putting the desks and technology back together was no difficult task; because the year had changed from '83 to '89 things sort of just appeared as they were invented and improved upon anyway and because the whole of CID was just a kind of afterlife in itself things like that just tended to sort themselves out, leaving Gene to assume there was a '_supervisor'_ or '_superintendant' _of some sort in some place watching over them and giving them all a helping hand.

However, once it came to flitting from desk to desk clearing detritus and removing personal effects a burning lump began to form in his throat.

He had started at Shaz's thinking that because in general he had spent the least amount of time with the young WPC who had had such a spark and so much potential that she didn't really need supervising during their shared time in CID he wouldn't find it too difficult to clear her desk. He was wrong. Even dealing with the last personal effects of someone who he had thought had meant so little to him was nothing short of harrowing.

There was still a half-full mug of tea on a coaster which read '_world's best daughter_' and she hadn't had time to pick up her house keys before she left – all the key-rings glinted at him almost maliciously, especially one that carried a little photo of her and Chris together, smiling and happy without a care in the world.

In her bin Gene found a plain old screwdriver and experienced the surfacing of the images of her being stabbed sometime in the mid-90s with painful clarity. Because now he remembered what he was doing here, what his purpose was, it was all too easy to see the last moments of those he guided as if he was standing right next to them, holding their hand. Who knew, maybe he really was.

She had a watch in her top drawer, the strap had been broken a long time ago; so long in fact that Gene couldn't even remember the last time she had worn it. But when he checked the time on it, it didn't correspond with that of the clock on the wall and instead read 25 past 11 – it would always be 11:25am for Shaz now, poor kid.

And then of course there were the desks of Ray and Chris, which faced each other and had served as a kind of communal dumping ground for all their things. There must have been about four full ashtrays and goodness knows how many packets of cigarettes all in varying degrees of emptiness – there had been no coherence to the smoking; just find a fag as best you could, it didn't matter where they were from because they'd all be smoked at some point.

Soon though, all that remained on the desks that showed any signs of previous ownership was a tiny little clock just about facing Ray's side of the desk and declaring the time exactly 12 o'clock and Gene sighed and blinked back a tear for Ray (as poncy as Ray would have doubtless found it). He saw once again the devastating way in which Ray took his own life and at exactly midnight too – so it was neither one day nor another, just some limbo in between. And now he'd be stuck there forever, that was the only time he'd ever see again all because his sense of responsibility and guilt had been too great to bear.

As for Chris' side there were just a few papers which he hadn't ever completed. On the top of the first one was a date and time which presumably to Chris had read the time he actually thought he was typing the document but to Gene now only said 13:14, the time he had been brutally shot without even having a chance to make the change he had wanted so desperately to do. Poor lad, he didn't deserve that any more than Gene had deserved a shallow grave and a bullet in his face.

From Gene's point in the middle of the room, facing his own office, CID now looked as good as new but he knew that it was time to steel himself and turn around. It was time for the last desk. He hadn't prepared himself to see Arthur Layton, the bastard, dragging Alex's 21st century self to some dirty, dingy corner, shooting her in the head and leaving her to die, as he approached her work space. He didn't know which feeling prevailed: that of his blood boiling with anger at how someone could do that to her, or of it effectively freezing in his veins as he witnessed both the shooting and her last painful moments on earth as she never properly surfaced from her coma, the time on the wall clock in her hospital room just ticking to 09:06.

He hadn't noticed it but all the others' gold-effect name plates had disappeared; accompanying them to the pub presumably and yet, on clearing Alex's desk, he saw hers still shining up at him, reflecting light from somewhere outside in the unlit atmosphere of CID. And Gene knew sadly that it was all to do with acceptance. Until you accepted you'd passed on and began to see the other life as your home, vestiges of your life here still remained. It was like you hadn't quite let go. And of course it was just like Alex Drake to cling on to something and refuse to let go, no matter who told her to. After clearing what little else was there, Gene had tenderly picked up the little hollow plaque as if it was a baby bird or some other similar tiny life-form and he slipped it into the top draw of his own desk and, a moment later with a tiny _thmp_, the scratched, faded badge that boldly read 6620 joined it there.

_A summer's disregard,  
A broken bottle top,  
And one man's soul.  
They follow each other,  
On the wind ya' know.  
'Cause they got nowhere to go.  
That's why I want you to know...  
_

And the two things were still there. Gene knew for certain because he had checked this morning to see if Alex's name plate was still there in its place. He checked every morning, half-hoping it would be gone because that meant that at least she was happy now and half-hoping it was still there so he could read her name and be assured that she hadn't been just a dream as he sometimes thought when the little details like the sound of her laugh or the smell of her hair became a little more foggy. Also, it helped him remember – it helped him keep on the right track and keep a firm grip on what his purpose here was. He couldn't allow himself to believe this to be real again or he'd never ever get close to getting his first free pint at The Railway Arms and Jim would start recruiting souls to the basement again. He owed it to Alex and the others to make sure that didn't ever happen again on his watch.

The problem with knowing that this wasn't real was that everything just seemed that little bit less important – what did it matter if they didn't catch some fake gun-dealer, with fake guns and fake murder threats? Nothing would change. It was only the passion of his team to restore justice (something that never died, no matter what) that kept him on task.

For weeks now, no matter how hard he had tried to keep telling himself that he had to keep focussed on his purpose here, he had had a niggling feeling somewhere in the pit of the stomach that everything was coming to an end again. He had known it, felt it in the pit of his stomach, when it had been time for Ray, Chris, Shaz and Alex to pass on and he knew that soon, something more than just a change of decade was in store.

It didn't help the feeling of unease that, even if he wasn't devouring souls in the pits of Hell or whatever it was he did, Jim Keats was still breathing down his neck every time he so much as thought to blink or get up and make a cup of tea. He was never happier than when he was trying to turn Gene's team away from him, undermine his authority or make up little statements about how Gene's time was running out and how Jim would win this battle Gene had found himself taking part in. Dealing with the little rat was so much easier when he had Luigi's to go and sit and drink in, with Chris and Ray to laugh with and that little opportunity he made sure he found every night to sit with just Alex so that they could tilt their heads towards each other and just sit and talk about whatever took their fancy. It had been something to look forward to everyday and life felt that little bit more empty without his time spent with her; it began to feel more like breathing and existing than actual living.

_...I'm starting with the man in the mirror.  
I'm asking him to change his ways.  
And no message could have been any clearer,  
If you wanna make the world a better place,  
Take a look at yourself and then make a change._

Still able to clearly hear the music playing in the streets, Gene checked the time on a clock through the window of a small café because it was no use checking his watch, like his late friends it was stuck on a certain time – the precise time that he had died. The clock told him that the time was twenty minutes to twelve, meaning that Gene only had twenty minutes left of his beloved 1980s. He had seen the previous two decades pass as head of CID, although working in Manchester and he had obviously lived through the 50s. But he had to say, looking at it objectively; the 80s had been one of his favourites. But he thought, that probably had more to do with the people he spent it with than the decade itself. It had all been drinking with Ray, Chris and Viv and shameless flirting amongst fiery rows and blistering flirtation with Alex Drake.

He thought about the way she had reacted to his harsh demeanour and brash, crude words. It had perhaps been the only thing stopping them becoming a couple, because whenever she said something nice or complimentary he just brushed it off. And now, without her, he felt as if he was stuck in a rut. He had nowhere to go. There were days when he woke up and felt so alone and, dare he admit it, scared he felt as if he could have just walked straight from his flat to The Railway Arms, where he knew Alex was waiting. But then, there were other times when he felt like he still deserved a chance to fulfil his time in the Met, because it had been cut so short. The Railway Arms had all but haunted his dreams every night. Sometimes it seemed as if it had been calling him to its door leaving him with a desire to call up Nelson's promise of a first free pint with an attraction so strong it felt as if it was magnetic. But at others he felt like the pub was pushing him away, telling him to keep trying and to stick by his decision to stay here.

_I've been a victim of,  
__A selfish kind of love.  
It's time that I realise,  
There are some with no home,  
__Not a nickel to loan.  
Could it be really me? Pretending that they're not alone?  
_

And it was that stubborn feeling that told him he should never go back on his decisions that had been his ultimate downfall. He'd never let himself admit his feelings to Alex because he'd vowed from the moment he saw her that the Gene Genie should not be falling for posh tarts like herself. That and the fact that his last attempt at a real relationship hadn't exactly ended well – his wife had bloody well left him and she had actually been in his league. Gene didn't often find himself lacking in self-confidence when it came to engaging the opposite sex in harmless flirtation but he often found that being with Alex felt like being the living embodiment of that Billy Joel song, _Uptown Girl._ It felt like that line _'she'll see I'm not so tough, just because I'm in love with an Uptown Girl'._ And he was damned if he was letting anyone see that he wasn't as tough as he had carved his exterior to appear. And he wasn't going to admit it was love either, because he didn't do caring emotions and true love anyway.

Oh hell, who was he kidding? It was a full on, smack me down and call me Casanova kind of love that he doubted he'd ever get over.

So, he'd never admitted his feelings and he'd lost his chance many times in the past with that Thatcherite wanker she'd gone and shagged and that Danny bastard she'd almost dropped her pants for. And he'd lost it once and for all that night he'd refused to let her stay here in this world with him. He'd expected that if they ever had embarked on some kind of relationship it would have all been a part of some ball of fiery speech where she shouted at him and he shouted back and before they knew it, they weren't shouting anymore. Instead, he had her bony arse up against the wall, kissing her silly. But it hadn't been anything like that at all. It had been swaying gently to Spandau Ballet, preparing to pepper little kisses on her face and end up at her lips. It had been a tearful, heart-wrenching goodbye as she clung to that little scarf as if her life depended on it, as if it would somehow take her home.

Nothing was ever as you imagined here. It wasn't as it should be and Gene hated every little false dream that was never realised and every sodding false case that his team believed was a step closer to them bringing about justice, for none of them remembered their other lives like Alex and Sam had. He hated it with a very deep-set anger and if he could ever meet the personification of such false irony he'd like to give the little bastard a quick jab in the bollocks with his beloved snooker cue. He supposed that the only reason he had to be glad that he'd been given such a role in this world for whatever reason, was that it had meant he had been able to meet Alex because he doubted their paths could have crossed if they'd both lived their lives to their full potential. Even if they had met, he reminded himself, he could never have appreciated her pert arse or spectacular cleavage and he certainly couldn't have allowed himself to fall in love with her, because that would be perverted – that is, too perverted even for him. The age gap would have been too great. As it was it had sometimes seemed that way in this world. But it wasn't the same – he never would physically age but it also felt like, while he gained life experience, he never really aged mentally either, time just didn't work that way here for him.

_A willow deeply scarred,  
Somebody's broken heart,  
And a washed out dream.  
They follow the pattern of the wind ya' see,  
'Cause they got no place to be.  
That's why I'm starting with me..._

Yes, all things considered, he had to at least be appreciative that this world had brought himself and Alex together. Because he sure as hell was bitter about everything else involved with being here. Who wouldn't be angry at having their life snatched away? There wasn't a day that went by now that he couldn't banish the images of his own death when he didn't think on it and picture what his life could have been. He couldn't deny that his bitterness had had a little to do with violent way with which he approached life (or whatever it was) here – the supposed criminals had long paid for Gene's death, even if none of them had really known it.

Shot in the face and dragged into a field. The bastard hadn't even had the balls to give him a proper grave. A couple of feet of earth down, he'd rolled the uniformed body over and over until it dropped in, face in the dirt. He felt the pain of the shot when he stood there in that derelict house with Alex, but it wasn't anything compared to what simply remembering felt like. He had never known it was possible to feel that much pain without having first experience some extreme alcohol-related stupor and a pucnh in the face from Alex Drake the night before. It was the kind of pain that killed people, but it didn't have the chance with him. It was way too late for that.

The only feeling worse than that was the way she looked at him, her large, mesmerising eyes shimmering with teardrops like cut glass that occasionally slipped away, down her cheeks and the way she asked him how he could have helped Sam, but not her. Her heartbreaking demands to know whether she had ever meant anything to him. _If only she had known_. If only he had had the guts to answer that question in the way he truly wanted to. And yet, still she stood by him. She begged him to fight his corner while Jim was wreaking havoc in CID, she stepped to the side slightly, maybe even unconsciously, when Ray pointed a gun at him and she was the one that sat with him while he cleaned himself up. She put the shards of the case back together and reignited the cold ashes of his whole team – she brought them back to him. She never ceased to amaze him and he didn't give a shit how soppy that sounded, not anymore. While she was there day in, day out and Gene felt as if she was never going to go anywhere it was easy to take things for granted. He didn't have to admit anything himself or to her tonight, because there was always tomorrow. Only people who've missed that chance understand that suddenly all that pride, all that pig-headed stubbornness doesn't count for anything once everything has crumbled to dirt through your fingers.

He'd never realised everything would end like this, he'd never expected things to go this way.

All he'd ever wanted to do in 1953 was make a difference. All he'd ever wanted to do was shift scum off the streets and make the world a tiny bit better in his own way. Had it all been so much to ask?

_...I'm starting with the man in the mirror.  
I'm asking him to change his ways.  
And no message could have been any clearer,  
If you wanna make the world a better place,  
Take a look at yourself and then make a change._

If he'd have known then, back in 1953, what he knew now, then Gene Hunt would have truly understood the meaning of the words that were drifting lazily into his head, floating on the cold of the night. If everyone just tried to be that little bit better than they thought they could be, if they pushed that bit further, then that was all the difference you could make. If he'd just had a little less swagger back then and hadn't been so full of himself, if he'd thought before he acted then he probably wouldn't have died. If he'd tried harder to remember what this world was the first time round, Alex might have lived to see her daughter. If he'd tried to be a better person, then Alex might have cared that little more and they both might have tried a bit harder to be mature and sensible and admit how they felt.

But they hadn't. None of those things had happened and that was all a huge part of this shit equation which meant he was standing on a fake street, without any fake people to keep him company, about to watch some fake fireworks to see in a fake decade. None of this was really happening where he stood. But, he mused, there was one place he could think of where he truly could see in the New Year, if he was only strong enough to make the change.

_Take a look at yourself and then make the change,  
You gotta get it right, while you got the time,  
'Cause when you close your heart,  
Then you close your mind.  
_

All the people lining the streets and cramming into little squares all over the city began to take hands with their nearest and dearest as the countdown to the New Year began. Most who had seen Gene Hunt marching around were too preoccupied by their own happiness to remember but a select few were able to wish and hope that there was no-one alone and sad on a night like this.

Gene himself was standing outside a pub, a customary situation for his good self. He could hear the chatter and noise from outside and wanted nothing more to go in and warm himself up – it really was freezing.

"So Gene, giving up are we?" a voice leered from the shadows. "I always knew you would, you're weak," Jim smirked as he approached slowly.

"You wish Jimbo," Gene replied in a non-committal tone. He had had enough of the verbal sparring matches with Keats that were getting increasingly childish and pedantic. He was tired of everything. Tired of having the full responsibility of stopping Jim Keats getting his grubby little hands on the souls of his officers and dragging them to the depths of Hell. Tired of fighting criminals that don't even exist. Tired of being all alone; of waking up first thing in the morning in a cold, empty bed with no prospect of spending the day with Alex. Tired of getting home late in the evening with no one to eat his dinner and share a drink in front of the TV with. No one to stand up on a whim and ask him dance. Tired of this never ending world.

"Why don't you just do the world a favour, Gene? Why don't you just go? No-one would miss you here," he teased and Gene knew that was true. It didn't hurt him like Keats wanted it to though, he didn't care.

"You'd better hope and pray I don't go Jimbo," he replied, "because I might be what you think is your worst nightmare but I can guarantee that if I do go, there'll be some bigger, even uglier bastard than my good self waiting to kick your puny little arse into next century," he growled.

"Oh, I'm shaking Gene, I really am. Because you've done such a good job all this time,"

"This new world's not for me, Jim. It's not for either of us and you know it. We can't change the way the time will," Gene said as the countdown began. "It's not down to who can win here anymore. It's about who's strong enough to move on. And I know I'm not scared of where I'm going. It's a shame we can't say the same for you though, isn't it," he added, his voice conveying no sentiments of sadness. He saw Keats pale beneath the collar of his trench coat and felt a little tweak of satisfaction in his chest.

"I won't be leaving, Gene," Keats said, although the effect was lost by the tremor in his voice. "I'd love to say I'd see you around," he said as he began to walk away, "but I'm sure that won't be case," he finished with a cackle.

"Well then, if this truly is the long goodbye I should say: I hope you're ready for the storm Jimbo. Because whoever's next will bring it, I can guarantee that. So bugger off, go on. Run along. I'll see you never and that'll be a day too soon."

Whatever Keats said as he walked off didn't register to Gene, he didn't care.

_That man you know, that man you know,  
I'm asking him to change his ways.  
Change,  
No message could have been any clearer,  
If you wanna make the world a better place,  
Take a look at yourself then make that change._

He turned 360 degrees very slowly taking in the street. He drank in the sights, sounds and smells. The freezing cut of the air, the booming of the fireworks as they added technicolour orbs to the starry night sky. Then every person in the area began to sing Auld Lang Syne and the song he claimed to hate so much filled up his senses.

_Should auld acquaintance be forgot and never brought to mind? Should acquaintance be forgot and auld lang syne. For auld lang syne, my dear, for auld lang syne. We'll take a cup o' kindness yet, for auld lang syne. _

As he came full circle and faced the pub again, the door was open and a man was waving a glowing smile on his face.

"Guv! You ready for that pint yet? It's been waiting for you,"

"And I've been waiting for it. For a long time, Nelson," Gene called back.

"Well," the bartender cried after a pause during which Gene remained nailed to the spot, "come on mon brav, I'm letting a draft in 'ere – the punters aren't happy, they're getting cold!"

"Just...just give me a second – I sort of want...need to say goodbye and be certain,"

"No problem, mon brav," Nelson replied, still beaming from ear to ear, "that pint never gets warm you know, Guv," he turned on his heel and shut the door behind him and the light that had spilled out was cut off like a snuffed out candle.

Gene was hesitant, his body ached to see Alex and to join her forever, but was he really ready to leave this world? Should he really leave someone else to deal with Keats? Had he done enough, fulfilled the dreams that skinny little 6620 had had all those years ago? Could he lay his demons to rest if he shut that door behind him?

Suddenly, light spilled out around him all over again as said portal was flung open quickly.

"I told you to give me some time, Nelson!" Gene snapped, trying to squint and focus as his eyes blinked shut against his will. He blinked them quickly to adjust back from dark back to light.

"You take as long as you need before you get that pint. I just wanted to see you," an altogether unexpected voice called softly, "just to convince myself you weren't just someone I made up and your world wasn't all some weird dream of mine."

His eyes focussed in their own sweet time, first picking out her silhouetted form then slowly, gradually, they filled in the colours like a master artist adding paints to his flawless masterpiece.

Yes, that was Alex Drake – she was flawless.

She was just as he remembered her – he hadn't forgotten after all. He hair was still of a length that it just grazed her soft, feminine jaw and she still wore her trademark skin-tight jeans, so figure-hugging they might as well have been painted on.

Her face was soft and gently illuminated by yellow light. She gave a sad smile and a little wave.

"Bolls," he called to her, "should you be doing this?" he asked, pretty sure you couldn't interact with the two worlds like this and pretty in awe that she would risk it.

"Probably not. But it's not hurting anyone," she answered. "I forced it out of Nelson that it was you outside, he didn't want to tell me. I've never seen anyone open the door this way except him, but I thought I'd give it a try," she smiled and time seemed to stall for a while. She looked at him for a minute, studying his face. "It's definitely not hurting anyone," she repeated, "but it's certainly healing me."

"Me too Bolls, me too," he agreed. "I'm tired, Alex," he admitted and the use of her real name was like a relief to him. He didn't say it often but when he did he carried a raw emotion on his tongue. He could almost feel it's acidic taste. "But I don't know what to do," he said, his eyes begging her to advise. But she refused.

"I can't tell you what to do Gene, I can only promise you that there's a pint of beer and a glass of red sitting side by side on the bar for when you're ready. And I'll be waiting as long as you want," she smiled and he saw a hand appear on her shoulder. "Apparently, I have to go," she said sadly. "I'll see you sometime Gene, I won't move on anywhere until you're here," she promised,

"I 'ope you've got something tarty standing by Bolls," he said with a grin,

"You count on it, Guv," she smiled as she turned away, the door closing behind her of its own accord.

He didn't know how long he stood staring at the closed door, weighing pros and cons with all the pros including forever with Alex Drake and all the cons including living more of his life without her.

And lest auld acquaintance be forgot and lest _he _forget his life and his purpose and more than anything his love, Gene Hunt saw in the New Year and the new decade in the best way he could possibly think of – in a warm, cosy pub, supping a cold beer, sitting round a table with close friends and smiling as the only women he had dreamt of for what felt like forever of snuggled that little bit closer to his side, cradling a glass of red wine.

_I'm gonna make a change,  
It's gonna feel real good,  
Just lift yourself,  
You know, you got to stop it yourself,  
Make that change.  
Make that change..._

_Fin_

_-/-/-_

**A/N: Well thanks very much for reading, just to clarify 'The Man in the Mirror' was of course Michael Jackson's song, released as a single in 1988 so I clearly don't that or the songs Uptown Girl or Auld Lang Syne. Anyway, as you can see I've hit the little 'complete' button but I'm not ruling out a follow up chapter to go with all my other A2A stuff if people would want to read it. But hey there's only one way to tell me if you want me to post stuff or to beg me to never darken the A2A fandom's doorstep again and that's with that review button. Seriously though, please let me know what you thought – you'll make my day =D**


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